“Not tonight!” Meg wailed. “Not again!”
It was at her third rapid step into the RV park’s darkened laundry room that the splash registered in her ears and water seeped into her low-cut flats.
She whirled with the overflowing hamper in her arms and slopped back out onto the covered porch. Setting down her laundry, she peered into the dimly lit room once more. Yep. Two inches of water. Again.
And wouldn’t you know it. She hadn’t had any time to do laundry that week, so it was getting to the do-it-now-or-wear-dirty-clothes stage. She was almost out of towels, too.
Zipping her sweatshirt against the encroaching chill, Meg gazed across the heavily treed campground, trying to decide what to do next. “A thinning number of oversized “land whales,” pop-up tents, trailers and campers dotted the landscape, their windows aglow as twilight slipped into darkness. Seasonal guests at this more-than-a-mile-high elevation had diminished considerably after Labor Day and more departed with each passing week as nighttime temperatures dipped into the low forties.
She sighed. Would she be wintering here herself or soon be heading back home to Phoenix? Until a few hours ago when Joe Diaz announced his intention to apply for the teaching job, she’d been certain of God’s leading. But now?
The Log-O-Laundry was not far down the road, but first she needed to make management aware of the water problem. Lugging the hamper along, she made her way to the log-sided office building. The door was locked, and only dim light emitted from the vending machines at the rear of the main room. She knocked, hoping someone might be in a back office or the rec room, but it was apparent Vannie Quintero, the White Mountain Apache teen who worked weekends, had closed for the evening.
While she hated to bother the campground’s owner, someone needed to know about the laundry room crisis. Again hoisting the hamper, she stepped off the porch and headed around the side of the building to a neat, but aging, modular home where Bill Diaz resided. The wooden deck creaked as she ascended the stairs and approached the metal-rimmed screen door. Red-and-black buffalo plaid curtains at the front windows looped aside to reveal a cozy, golden-hued interior. Meg glimpsed the owner reclining in an easy chair, the lantern-based lamp next to him illuminating an open newspaper gripped in his hands.
She knocked, and momentarily the door swung open.
“Grandpa, it’s Miss Meg!” Davy, incongruously dressed in cowboy-themed flannel pajamas and the brigand’s hat from earlier in the afternoon, hopped from one bare foot to the other as he opened the screen door. “She’s come to have pirate food with us.”
The scent of fresh coffee mingling with an acrid odor of burned food caught her attention. “Thank you, Davy, but I’m not here to eat. I need to see your grandpa a minute.”
Meg glimpsed the boy’s father in the adjoining kitchen, his unexpected frown directed right at her. She hadn’t thought to ask Sharon where the two younger Diaz males were staying, but she should have known they’d be at Bill’s. She lifted a hand in greeting, and he nodded a wary response. Great. He probably thought she was stalking him or something.
A newspaper crackled, and in a moment the stocky, mustached Bill Diaz appeared behind his grandson. Placing one hand on the boy’s shoulder, he held open the screen door with the other. Soft light glinted off salt-and-pepper hair, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on a hawklike nose. She could now see a resemblance to Joe through the eyes, but suspected his son might take more after his mother.
“Hey, Meg. What can I do for you?”
“Hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but the laundry room’s flooded again.”
Bill scrubbed at his face with his hand and reached for a ball cap lying on a table near the door. “I thought that was taken care of. Let me take a look at it.”
“Dad.” Joe’s disapproving voice cut in from the adjoining room. “It’s time to eat. Can’t that wait?”
“It can wait if you don’t care if your old man gets sued by a litigation-happy camper.” He turned to Meg with a grin. “Now step on in here, young lady. Get out of the cold while I turn off the water and lock up.”
“Thanks, but I need to get going. Besides, my shoes are sopping wet.”
Bill glanced down at her feet, illuminated in the light spilling from the open door. “Davy, run and get a pair of my socks. Clean ones. And a towel.”
“Dad—” Joe’s voice warned again.
“Can’t have her catching her death of cold right on my doorstep.” Bill cast an obstinate look in his son’s direction as he pried the laundry hamper from Meg’s fingers and set it inside the door. “Come in, come in.”
“No, really, I—”
“We’re having fish sticks,” Davy called as he paddy-footed to do his grandfather’s bidding. “You can have some. I’m only having one.”
“Thank you, but I—”
“Of course you can have some.” Bill reached for her hand and tugged her inside. “Unless you’ve already had dinner?”
She hadn’t eaten yet, but she doubted anything on the bachelor buccaneer menu would match her dietary restrictions. Her gaze collided once more with Joe’s across the room. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. Big lunch.”
“Nonsense. You’d blow away in a strong breeze.” Bill handed her the towel and socks Davy had retrieved. Motioning to the kitchen area of the open-planned house, he leaned over with a confiding whisper. “I’ll be right back. Keep Joe company. Make sure he doesn’t burn anything else.”
Joe shook his head and turned back to the stove, but not before she caught a twitch of a smile. Thank goodness. She’d barely towel dried her feet and pulled on Bill’s socks when Davy grasped her hand.
“Dad burned the potatoes.”
“Are you sure? I thought maybe that lovely aroma was his aftershave.”
Grinning, Davy pinched his wrinkled-up nose.
Joe glanced over at them. “Wash up, Davy. And ditch the hat, please.”
“But Dad—” The boy rolled his eyes and gave Meg’s hand a squeeze before releasing it to skip from the room, his enthusiasm at the prospect of her company apparent. An enthusiasm his father evidently didn’t share.
After a moment’s hesitation, Meg approached the tiny kitchen. Stuffing her hands into her sweatshirt pockets, she leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dinner.”
“Hope you’re into packaged seafood.” He motioned with a spatula to the box of frozen fish sticks. “Not exactly fresh from the Pacific.”
“Catch of the day is highly overrated, don’t you think?”
Joe flashed a smile that once again sent Meg’s heart skittering, and it was with more than a little reluctance that she pulled her gaze away to take in her well-worn, rustically furnished surroundings. Black iron woodstove. Heavy oak pieces. Leather upholstery. A Navajo-patterned, throw-sized blanket tossed across the arm of the sofa. Masculine without a doubt,
